


Daedalus at Night

by Sealie



Series: sga/traders [10]
Category: Stargate Atlantis, Traders (TV 1995)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-18
Updated: 2006-10-18
Packaged: 2017-10-23 13:07:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sealie/pseuds/Sealie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stargate Atlantis/Traders crossover no' 10 [voyage par mer segment]<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Daedalus at Night

**Author's Note:**

> Rating: soft as clarts  
> Spoilers: none  
> Betas: Incomparable LKY. I played with this after getting the beta, so the booboos belong to me.

**Daedalus at Night.**  
 **  
by Sealie  
**

The nightlight illuminated the metal ceiling with a soft, pale orange glow. Grant rolled over in the bunk bed and peered down at Rodney, fast asleep on the bunk beneath. His cousin slept on his tummy, cheek turned into the pillow. Mr. Jinx, nose tucked into tail, slept between his shoulder blades.

Carefully, Grant pushed back his blanket and swung his legs over the side of the bunk. There was no noise from below, apart from breathy sighs. Creeping ever so carefully, Grant worked his way down the bunk ladder. Rodney continued sleeping. Grant crouched at his side, marvelling at the length of Rodney’s eyelashes, so dark against his cheeks. Fingers twitching, he estimated that they were thirty three percent longer than his friend, Jack’s eyelashes. Grant gave a sad huff; Jack only lived in his memories, now –dead and gone.

He crouched, clasping his knees against his chest. Rodney was busy, busy, busy – whirling and chaotic. He was a vortex of Rossby waves -- he was _delta K over delta t_ \-- azimuthal mean of kinetic energy -- drawing them all in. But his hair was ordered and smooth with glossy, chestnut highlights hidden within calming brown. He had been blond as a baby. Grant brushed quiet fingers over Rodney’s temple and a faint smile was his reward.

Some factors were eminently predictable.

Grant stood and caught a glimpse of his profile out of the corner of his eye. He tilted over to the mirror and regarded himself by the glow of the nightlight. He looked bruised but on the inside, not on the out. His hair was wild – sticking up left, right and centre. Rodney had cut his hair. He hadn’t done a good job. Grant saw that had been left tufty and scruff marred his jaw. He smoothed his fingers over the whorl at edge of his cheek, twisting over the valleys of a patch of red rash – _dx over dt equalled Ax._ His therapist had told him to remember his hygiene.

Grant scooped up his toilet bag, a change of night clothes and tiptoed out of their cabin.

~*~

Clean, freshly shaved and wearing brand new white boxer shorts and t-shirt, Grant stood outside the bathroom in the centre of the corridor. Which was port and which was starboard? he wondered. Port had four letters which was the same number of letters as l.e.f.t., so port should be left. Grant turned starboard and scurried back to his cabin, bare feet slapping – slap slap slap – a rhythm of three beats in the bar, back to his and Rodney’s cabin.

Or was it berth? Were they assigned a cabin or a berth in a starship?

Rodney had given him a necklace with a card -- hole punched -- looped through the chain. He pulled it out from under his t-shirt and leaned forward, holding the card at the end of the length of chain to strike through the door sensor. The door slid open without even a whisper – Rodney had fiddled with the controls (he had turned into a decent engineer in the last year) – so the sleeper within was not disturbed.

It was definitely a room, even if technically it should be a cabin or berth. A room with a bunk bed, a single dresser to share and one chair – all of which were bolted to the floor.

Grant didn’t quite follow why they had only been given one chair when the room was for two people. But Rodney had let him choose which bunk he wanted, so that was all right. Rodney still slept on his tummy and Mr. Jinx warm on his back. Neither had moved a muscle. Precisely, Grant stored his shaving kit and toiletries and placed his not quite clean clothes in the basket for washing.

Rodney actually liked things just so -- it was comforting.

He needed hot chocolate before he could go to bed. Hot milky chocolate and then he could go back to bed.

Grant padded barefoot back out of their cabinroomberth.

~*~

Carson stopped pecking away one handed on his laptop, tea mug in the other hand, as Grant shuffled barefooted into the commissary. Head down, he read his way with his fingertips along the kitchen table bolted to the wall. He touched all the mugs securely hooked to the underside of the wall unit. One mug passed his inspection and, with great deliberation, he placed it on the table top. His exacting scrutiny -- without ever raising his head -- turned to the carefully stored canisters on a narrow shelf above the table. Each container had their own bungee cord holding them securely in place against potential sweeps and yaws as the vessel surfed through subspace.

Carson slowly stood up, hoping the movement would garner Grant’s attention. He didn’t want to call out and startle him. Grant froze, glancing furtively out of the corner of his eye.

“Good evening, Grant.” Carson closed the lid on his laptop, hoping that common place would calm the man. That Grant was out and about without clinging to the hem of Rodney’s fleece was an improvement big enough to make Carson jump up and click his heels. He weaved his way between the tables to the small out-of-hours, self-service kitchen unit.

Grant drummed his fingers over the lid of the final canister in the row.

“It’s a little late for coffee,” Carson said conversationally.

Grant’s brow furrowed perplexed, he drew his finger over the embossed writing tracing the letters.

“If you want a night time drink, how’s about a mug of warm milk?”

Grant gagged silently.

“I know that too much caffeine isn’t good for you, Grant.” One of Grant’s more interesting psychoses was triggered by excessive amounts of caffeine. However, how much constituted an ‘excessive amount’ had not been quantified.

Grant’s questing fingertips drifted to the canister of hot chocolate.

“There’s caffeine in chocolate, but we can make a milky hot chocolate with maybe a drop of peppermint.”

Grant snuck a quick, horrified glance at him.

“I guess not.” Carson crouched down and opened the fridge. Only days out, they still had access to real cow-milk and -- Carson licked his lips in anticipation -- cream. “Can you get the sugar?”

As he carefully set the cream on the counter, Grant gently placed the bowl with sachets of sugar next to it.

“Can you see any cocoa, Grant?”

Tongue caught firmly between his teeth, Grant set to hunting. There was a tiny, two-burner combo set on the end of the counter suitable for heating a pan of soup or, in this case, two mugs worth of milk. Carson poured out about half a pint of milk in the saucepan sitting on the hob and switched the electric element on at a low setting. No open flames on a space vessel. Grant bounced up and down on his toes and pulled a small pot of Cadbury’s cocoa from the end cupboard.

“Ah, good, you found it. Can you put a teaspoon in each mug, please?” Carson asked.

No prevaricating just a nervous head wobble and prompt following of the instructions. Next, he instructed Grant to tear open a couple of sachets and pour the sugar in the mugs. His hands were steady; no evidence of even fine tremors.

“Are you sure that you don’t want to try peppermint essence?”

Grant shook his head firmly and Carson made another tick in his mental check book. He dumped a dollop of cream in each mug and set Grant to stirring the cocoa and sugar to a smooth paste. The talking would resume at Grant’s own pace. There was a hint of stubbornness there – the trick was not to allow him to become comfortable in his silence.

“Where’s Rodney?” A question which couldn’t be answered with a yes or no response.

Grant pushed the two stirred and stirred mugs towards the saucepan, ignoring the question.

“Hey, guys.” Sheppard slid into view, skating over the shiny floor plates in his stocking feet. He too was ready for bed, dressed in old, soft-washed, faded sweat pants and a thin long sleeved t-shirt.

A hint of a smile creased Grant’s lips. He shuffled happily and took another mug from the rack and poured in the ingredients.

“Ooh, chocolate.” Sheppard set a hip on the edge of the counter.

Carson decanted more milk into the pan as Grant finished mixing Sheppard’s cocoa, sugar and cream into a smooth paste.

“Where’s Rodney?” Sheppard asked.

Cocking his head to the side, Grant folded his hands together, palm to palm, finger to finger, and laid his hands against his cheek. He closed his eyes and drew in a peaceful sigh.

“Sleeping,” Sheppard translated.

The thick scent of warming milk stroked the back of Carson’s throat and he saw the fine line of bubbles on the surface of the milk, so he cut the heat. Before the skin could curdle into being, he poured the hot milk in the mugs, filling them part way.

Sheppard raised any eyebrow at the meagre portion, but found silence. Grant’s fingers twitched eagerly. He moved, cupping the mug in his hands, raising it to his face and breathing in the warmth.

“Boy, you like chocolate,” Sheppard noted.

Grant smiled, his face framed by wispy curls of steam from the mug as he breathed. He wiggled in delight.

“So what do you think of the Daedalus?” Sheppard asked.

Grant toasted him with hot chocolate.

“That good, eh?” Carson laughed. Somehow, Grant made it easy to know his every thought through expression and deed. He took a mouthful of his own hot chocolate, enjoying it after limited rations for nearly a year, despite their fortnight holiday. Simultaneously, Sheppard took his own draft and maintained an appreciative expression. Truth be told, Carson knew that John was not that fussed about hot chocolate, preferring water or juice.

“It’s late, why are you guys up?” Sheppard asked as he licked a drop off his lip.

“I was working.” Carson waved a hand vaguely at the laptop on the far table.

Grant waggled his cup.

“I wish that you’d talk, Squirrel.” Sheppard tilted his head to the side. He found a haphazard smile as Grant’s eyes widened, fretful. His fingers clenched around the mug, knuckles turning white. “In your own time, though.”

Grant breathed an immediate sigh of relief.

Moving slowly, every motion choreographed, Sheppard reached out and flicked the tip of Grant’s nose. “Sooner rather than later, right, Squirrel?”

Grant nodded fervently.

Carson marvelled at John’s ease that spoke so unswervingly to Grant.

~*~

Grant let John steer him down the corridor with a light hand on his shoulder. They stopped outside the cabinberthroom-place of sleeping. John peered down his ski-jump nose at the card lock. Carefully wielding his swipe card, Grant opened the door to their room. Curious, John poked his head around the door to inspect the low-lit cabin. Rodney had turned on his lower bunk to the bulkhead, presenting them the breadth of his shoulders and the back of his head. Mr. Jinx sat sphinx-like taking up the Lion’s share of his mattress.

“You going to go to sleep, Grant?” John asked.

Grant nodded. On tiptoes, he crept into his room.

“K, then, good night.” With a cocky smile, John stepped back, allowing the door to close before him. Alone, standing in the middle of the room, Grant licked his top lip, chasing that final molecule of chocolate.

They were good people, nice. They weren’t cruel. Grant padded barefoot to the bunk. Mr. Jinx let him scoop him up and settle -- the cat on his lap -- on the bottom bunk. Rodney mumbled vaguely and shuffled closer to the wall, pushing up against the cold bulkhead giving them space. Grant carded his fingers against the grain of the short fur at the base of Mr. Jinx’s skull, drawing a purr from the tabby cat.

He had looked after Rodney when he had been too small to look after himself. They each struggled through different aspects of the confusing mishmash of life. Some clues Rodney had discovered and other he had deciphered. The benefit of experience had allowed him to help Rodney when he had been very small, coping with the bags of water around them, to learn the rules and the cues when, like the proverbial switch, suddenly people weren’t real.

Rodney mumbled, “Grant?” and shifted onto his back. His lashes fluttered on his cheeks as he dreamed. “Guys? No? Don’t.”

Grant breathed a silent shush and gently brushed his cousin’s temple. The eyes stopped roving and Rodney’s head lolled to the side.

I’m okay, Grant thought loudly as Rodney kicked out once, rucking up his blankets and pulling them down to his waist. Tutting, Grant drew them back and tucked him in, ensuring not a single wrinkle marred the grey-blue cover and that Rodney was not rolling over anytime in the near future.

Rodney’s brow furrowed, but swaddled he found an instinctive comfort. A breathy sigh passed his open lips as he passed deeper into sleep, relaxing into his bed. Grant stood with Mr. Jinx draped over his fore arm like a jaguar on a tree branch. Cat in hand, he clambered back up to his narrow bunk, ducking his head to avoid the low ceiling as he rolled onto the mattress. Jinx squirmed out of his grip, escaping to pace along the bulkhead edge of the buck, trying to find the most comfy spot. Grant burrowed into his blankets, hauling the covers up snugly around his neck. The ceiling was very low, pressing down without touching, and it was immensely comforting.

Content and warm on his side, sleep edged up next to him. Mr. Jinx draped over Grant, wrapping around his head to tuck a pointy chin over his neck.

He wanted a porthole so he could see the streamers of hyperspace moieties racing past on their way to the end of time where 1=Ω. The nimbus of light around the nightlight bled toward that boundary of impossibly infinity. Equations written in red minuetted before his eyes; hypothesis and solutions twisting back and forth, all drifting on the hyperspace wave that vibrated.

He should take his meds; but then the magic would be muted.

Draped over his neck, Mr. Jinx purred roughly and Grant felt the thrum over his skin,

Slowly, he closed his eyes letting the drone of space ship travelling through an impossibility -- where M theory equalled ‘mystery’ and E7 simply did not enter into the equation -- lull him to sleep.

 _fin_  


 **Interlude** : It runs in the family  
 **by Sealie**

“No, Rodney.”

“What?”

“I said: No, Rodney. I will not give Grant the ATA gene therapy.” Hands gripping a delicate in-vitro medical diagnostic kit, Carson stared out the Dadaelus porthole at the swift passage of light through subspace as he beseeched higher beings to bestow patience.

Rodney flung his arms out, barely missing the medical box of supplies on Carson’s assigned lab. bench. “Why? We’re practically identical; you know that the gene therapy will take.”

“The key word is ‘practically’, Rodney.” Carson sealed the cardboard box of supplies with a stretch of parcel tape. Using a black sharpie, he wrote a number on the single, plastic wrapped kit that he had extracted from the box and placed it on a plastic tray on the bench.

“Oh, I get it, you’re discriminating against him because he’s got--” Rodney made speech marks with his fingers, “--problems.”

“Oh, don’t be contentious, you daft git.” He took a swift glance around his assigned lab. space and spotted the ream of folders poking out of his old, battered conference bag on the floor.

“What are they?” Rodney asked, following his line of sight.

“This is part of Grant’s medical file.” Scooping them up, he hefted the cardboard wrapped folders against his chest. “This is what I could get in the fifty seven odd hours I had before we embarked. There are five distinctly separate diagnoses in these documents and a number of interrelated conditions all relating to his mental and neurological diagnoses. Some of them are a complete load of bollocks and others I would give some credence.” He set the folders on the bench with a heavy slap and plonked his butt on a lab. stool, leaving a hand resting on the tome.

“And what does that have to do with giving Grant the ATA therapy?” Rodney took the other stool.

“Supposing that Grant suffers from bi-polar I disorder – and I’m speaking hypothetically here – is his history of psychosis a result of elevated calcium –independent phospholipases A2 activity? Or let’s see -- the possibility of an autism spectrum disorder -- Aspergers syndrome or PDD-NOS? Evidence indicates that these syndromes are linked with changes on the regional brain anatomy and functional networks and possibly are due to abnormal regulation of multiple ontogenetic processes. Possibly polygenic -- involving three to fifteen alleles with complex gene-to-gene effects. But don’t forget that recent hypotheses consider that gene-environment effects are an important facet. Which genes, though? UBE3A locus, several of the GABA system genes on chromosome 15q11-13? Oh, and what about the serotonin transporter gene 17q? Shit--” Carson clicked his fingers and stared straight at Rodney, “--I forgot about the ENGRAILED2 gene – but which polymorphism within EN2? Intronic SNP rs1861772? Or….”

“You’ve made your point, Carson.” Rodney folded his arms over his chest.

“Have I? Because browbeating Dr. Biro or Urquhart when we get to Atlantis, isn’t going to change where we are now. Giving Grant the gene therapy would be criminally irresponsible. Sneaking into my lab. and helping yourself to a wee little injection could have unpredictable and catastrophic effects on Grant. Remember that there’s a mental components to the activation of ancient technology, marry together stretching your mind in the Ancient chair system with, perhaps, a touch of schizophrenia – I think that ‘recipe for disaster’ is an understatement.”

“If you think that poorly of Grant why did you approve his joining this mission?” Rodney said churlishly.

“I’m going to remember that you’re my friend and that you’re only being defensive because you care about your cousin.” Carson leaned in right into Rodney’s personal space, noses almost together. “Do you damn well think I’m an idiot? I know what you did with Elizabeth; play acting as Grant to get the IOA approval. Grant’s here because the goa’uld-infiltrated Trust want him and because he needs his family. His medical situation precludes administering gene therapy. It doesn’t stop him being a functioning, productive member of the Atlantis community. I’ll ask you to remember that Radek doesn’t have the gene and he gives you a run for your money.”

“Not even close,” Rodney protested automatically.

End interlude


End file.
